Who are you strange presence – there behind my eyes? You were dark and masculine – a strong and angry thing like a storm, but calmly wrathful, sneering at others’ plans. Who are you? Are you me? Or was I falling brief-asleep and dreamed you? You were there for a moment when the sun shone on my eyes, and its warmth was a cocoon of sleep – a gateway to a world of dreams whose realness could not have been in question.
You are not there now when I think of you. Are you the prince? I know you are there. But here is too much noise and the moments are not joined seamlessly. There is so much unreality – a great land I can sense behind my eyes, peopled with things which are me, and not me. I have only this inadequate language with which to express you, lest I look at someone wordlessly and wonder whether they might see it in my eyes.
How it recedes. It is too real – eyes open – too crisp and bright and real – I am almost suffocated by it.
